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The most important subject in our paragraph is what we may call the Creed of Natural Religion, as it may be inferred from the judgments of the barbarians about Paul — first judging him to be a murderer when they saw the viper fastening on him, then going to the other extreme of judging him to be a god because it did him no harm. But, before we come to speak of this, I wish to call your attention to one or two points of practical interest. The first of these is the kindly hospitality which these islanders showed to the shipwrecked men who had been cast so destitute on their shore. This was in very marked contrast to what has frequently happened on the coasts of Great Britain — where men who, I suppose, would call themselves Christians, have held out false lights to a ship labouring in a storm, in order to lure her on to destruction, so that the wreckers, as they are called, may plunder the dead bodies cast ashore, and share the spoil of the wreck. Such diabolical conduct has not unfrequently been displayed by so-called Christian men in Christian Britain, while these barbarians, who never heard of the name of Christ, or of the gospel of kindness and charity which He preached, showed uncommon kindness to the victims of the shipwreck east upon their shores. We admire them, do we not? And why? Just because, after all, kindness, notwithstanding much of the selfishness and cruelty which is in our world, is one of those touches of nature which makes the whole world kin. It is a plant in the heart of the natural man of God's own planting; part of our nature which shows that, after all, we are children of the heavenly Father, bearing still some traces of the Divine image in which we were created. But while we thus admire and rejoice in kindness as displayed by others, and while we do so because it speaks of the brotherhood of man and the Fatherhood of God, and while we recognise it as a plant of the Heavenly Father's planting, we must remember that if it is to thrive in our nature, in our homes, in our congregations and Churches, in our communities and social life, like all other plants, it must be cultivated or it dies. The only true way to cultivate any moral plant, whether good or evil, is by exercising it. We often meet with men and women who, in 'sailing over life's sea, have been shipwrecked by misfortunes which they could no more have helped than Paul could have helped the storm which blew him and his companions on the shores of Malta. We meet with others whom the wild assault of temptation, or whom the strong storm of their own passions, had driven to moral ruin and shipwreck. What is our attitude towards these? Is it not too often the case that the cruelty and selfishness of our hearts have smothered up the natural kindness which God had implanted in us, so that instead of pitying and helping and showing kindness — a kindness which might be their salvation at last — we stand aloof from them, blaming them unsparingly, judging them harshly, and condemning them fiercely, taunting them with their folly, and accusing them with their sin — so that instead of helping them by our kindness, we, by our cruelty and heartlessness, drive them back to perish in the angry, all-devouring sea of misfortune and sin from which they sought to escape. Shall the conduct of the barbarians of Malta shame us Christians of today? And now to turn for a moment to Paul's conduct on this occasion. We are told he had gathered a bundle of sticks and laid them on the fire. Instead of standing whining and complaining, and expecting all help from others when misfortune overtakes him, he, with the true manliness which was so characteristic of him, sets about to help himself. Some people, when misfortune comes to them, seem to think that all that they should do is merely to appeal to the kindly compassion and help of others. These are the people whom kindness, charity, help makes paupers of — to whom help is more often a curse than a blessing, for it takes away all manliness and self-respect — whereas the truest and surest way to win the kindly feeling and help of others is that men in misfortune even should do what they can to help themselves, for I do not suppose anyone comes so low in means or in morals but that he can put forth, Paul-like, some effort of self-help, which shall be more effective to raise him back to that position from whence he has fallen, than all the help and kindness which can be shown him. Again, Paul shows that it is never beneath true dignity to stoop to any useful service. If Paul had been like many of us, he would have stood on his dignity as the great apostle, and would expect others to stoop to the menial service of gathering sticks for the fire. But he had the spirit of his Master, who did not think it beneath His dignity to stoop to wash the feet of the fisherman of Galilee — who did not think it beneath His dignity to stoop lower still, and not only wash away the dust stains from His disciple's feet with water, but to wash away the infinitely foul stain of men's sins with His blood. There are some people who are quite willing to do open public service, if only they can win applause to themselves, and they think they have been serving Christ, or the cause of their fellow men, but they will not condescend to do an humble obscure act for Christ or for men, because it does not attract to them the applause or notice of others. These must be told they are mere hollow-hearted servants, men pleasers, rendering only eye service, and that their prominent services are not services for Christ or man, but for low, paltry, mean, selfish ends, serving self only; and Christ, aye, and men too, will value their service accordingly. Let us, Paul-like, Christ-like, serve not only in what brings glory and praise and eclat and popularity to ourselves, but let us be willing to serve in what is obscure and insignificant, then we shall prove that we are not self-seekers, but truly Christ's servants. And now an incident occurred which opens up a wider train of thought than I have time to devote to the following of it fully out today. When Paul had cast his bundle of sticks on the fire, a viper, which had been lying torpid being revived by the heat, fastens on his hand, but he shakes it off as does a healthy bodily constitution shake off the disease which fastens with deadly effect on others, or as the man who is morally sound at the heart can throw off the deadly temptation which seeks to fasten itself upon him, but can easily spit its poison into the veins of others less morally sound. The more superstitious barbarians came to the usual conclusion in such cases. "This man is a murderer, whom vengeance had pursued on the sea, but failed to overtake, but whom vengeance now shall not let escape." After watching for some time and not seeing any symptoms of harm — not seeing, as they expected, that he should drop down dead — they rushed to the opposite extreme, and said, "He is a god." Now, underlying this superstition there was this solemn, awful, and eternal truth, that guilt will, sooner or later, by some means or other, be overtaken by punishment. That, as the Scriptures put it, "Though hand join in hand, the wicked shall not go unpunished." This is the creed, or at least a part of the creed, of natural religion. An element in the religious belief of all men in all ages, in all stages of civilisation, is the faith that sin shall not go unpunished. It is belief as natural to the human heart, and as keenly felt in the conscience, as that wrong is wrong and right is right. So that the conviction which lay at the bottom of their false judgment of Paul was a true conviction. But there is a deeper truth underlying this conviction — that sin is always followed by punishment. For that conviction assumes that the world must therefore be governed by righteousness — that a universal law of righteousness rules the world when men believe because they see it and feel that it is right, that sin is always followed by punishment — punishment, mind you, not in the world to come only, but in this world of ours. The creed of natural religion is right so far, but then, as exhibited by these barbarians, it was accompanied by the false idea that every accident that befalls a man, every misfortune that comes to him, is punishment for sin. Even at the present day there is a false idea abroad that such accidents as the Tay Bridge disaster was a judgment from God for travelling on Sunday — instead of looking at the true facts that it was bad engineering and bad workmanship — the real cause of the disaster. Many an innocent, good, upright man suffers misfortune and what; we call evils because of the evil doings of others, while many a rogue and scoundrel thrives and is prosperous, and seems to have peace and happiness, notwithstanding his evil-doing. But it is eternally true, as God is true, that sin is followed by punishment, by the inward debasing and demoralising of the man, by the gnawings of a biting remorse, by the eating into his secret heart and life of the worm that never dieth, by the burning in his soul of the hell fire that may never be quenched. While again the good man, the godly man, though outward circumstances may be against him, though he may be in poverty and sickness and sorrow often, aye, even though the viper tongue of slander may fasten on him, and men may suspect him to be a murderer or worse, yet in his innermost being he enjoys the peace of God — "the peace that passeth all understanding." He carries about with him the peace of a pure conscience, the consciousness of God's favour, the grand feeling that he has wronged no man, and the assurance that, notwithstanding his many faults and failings, which no one knows so well, or blames so keenly as he does himself, yet that through the all-pervading mercy of God in Christ, through the infinite merit of Christ's great sacrifice — he will be at last received into God's ever lasting habitation.

(J. A. Fletcher.)

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KJV: And when they were escaped, then they knew that the island was called Melita.

WEB: When we had escaped, then they learned that the island was called Malta.